


Just Another Winter's Tale

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Romance, Tender Moments without Plot, a.k.a. PWP - much as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No radio, no television; whatever did they <i>do</i> on all those long, cold evenings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> _'Yes, he warned me of that in his last letter,' said Frodo, 'so I have always kept it on its chain.'_  
>  FotR Chapter Two – The Shadow of the Past

_When winter first begins to bite_  
    and stones crack in the frosty night,  
when pools are black and trees are bare,  
    ‘tis evil in the Wild to fare 

Frodo shivered a little as he read the verse aloud once more; the delicious, appreciative shiver of one who is safely and warmly situated, well-cushioned against any such hardship. Fond though he was of rambling through the Shire, on a night like tonight, there was only one place to be, and that was in front of a good fire, snugly ensconced in his favourite chair. Toes toasting pleasantly in the heat, he'd a hot toddy on the table at his side, a letter from Bilbo to read, with the usual poem or three included within its brief folds, and the best possible company with whom to share all this.

‘Aye, it makes you right glad you’ve nowhere to go, don’t it? Mr Bilbo really caught the feeling there.’ Sam said, with a grin. He glanced comfortably around the room. 

The shutters were firmly in place and the thick winter curtains drawn close, their red taking a glow from the flickering firelight, the warmth almost tangible in the cosy parlour. A great back log of long-burning oak lay beneath the smaller chunks that needed watching for their spitting sparks; they’d use no more of those tonight, for all must burn safely out before bedtime. They had found the long-dead pine on a ramble northward; in autumn Sam always took along the wherewithal to saw off branches, so they had dragged several of them home in triumph. There were few satisfactions to match a full woodshed—along with a well-stocked cellar and pantries stuffed tight as might be, of course—careful provision against the worst winter might bring. 

‘I just hope he really is as snugly settled as he claims,’ Frodo said, with a worried frown. ‘It’s very nice to receive his letters—more often would be even better, of course, but that’s Bilbo!— but I do wish he would tell us where he _is_. It’s good to know it’s somewhere, an inn perhaps, where he has paper and ink and leisure to write, but—’

‘I don’t think,’ Sam said firmly, ‘Mr Bilbo would deceive you about that. And begging his pardon but I don’t reckon you _could_ write like that if you were having to _live_ it. They're thoughts to dwell on when you’re warm and cosy - after such a trip maybe, when you’re sat like we are, outside of a good meal and nothing more to worry about but whether they’ve put a hot stone bottle in your bed, and if it’s been there long enough to have warmed it through yet. That poem’s meant to make you think twice about what you’ve got, not miss what you haven’t!’

‘You’re right, of course, Sam. It’s just—’

‘It’s just that you worry about him gallivanting who knows where at his age!’ Sam smiled, not a little because he could read his Frodo so well.

‘Yes! I’m sorry, Sam—I know, really, that you’re right, and Bilbo must have somewhere to call his own, even if it’s a room in someone else’s home.' 

It happened with the arrival with every one of Bilbo’s infrequent letters. Frodo would feel guilty once more for allowing his uncle to disappear into the Wild all alone (as if he could have stopped him; no-one ever made Bilbo Baggins do anything he didn’t want to). And Sam must convince him that Bilbo had to have settled down somewhere by now—travelling for pleasure was all very well, but Mr Bilbo had got very tired of his last big journey, long before its end. Sam would have staked a great deal on him having been safely situated somewhere these several years—in a cottage maybe, since smials weren’t much used outside the Shire, by what Mr Bilbo had told him long ago. In Dale, possibly, since he’d been so honoured there; perhaps even with Beorn, for he’d spent Yule and most of a winter with him once before, and had become quite attached to the garden. 

The reason he provided no return address, Sam thought shrewdly, was that he’d probably a good idea Frodo might up sticks and join him, and Mr Bilbo’d not think that best for Frodo. Which it wouldn’t be, not with him so well established as the Master now, with the interests of his village and his Farthing at heart. He'd not yet grown tired of such things, as Mr Bilbo obviously had, and his wanderlust was still Shire-based. Sam was privately convinced it might range further as he got older, and occasionally contemplated setting off into the Wild with a shudder not unlike Frodo's earlier shiver. He rather hoped that when they went, they’d do it, like Mr Bilbo, in a somewhat warmer month.

Definitely not on a night like this, any road. Winter evenings _should_ be spent by the hearth, for winter brought a feeling akin to sleepiness even when you didn’t doze the time away ‘til spring, like bats and hedgehogs and such. The crackle of burning wood and the familiar hiss from the oil lamp had sung in congenial counterpoint to the murmur of Frodo's voice as he read, but now the wind was getting up around The Hill, whistling ominously in the chimney and wheezing through the hearth vents. 

Bungo Baggins—or his builder—had known a thing or two about building for comfort, thought Sam, not for the first time. Unheard of anywhere else in the Farthing, so far as Sam knew, feeder pipes had been laid by that unnamed builder under every floor—a pair to each hearth at its corners—all running together to the one outlet, by the back smial wall (and needing a regular attention in the matter of mouse guards). Not many smials in the area were as big as Bag End, with so many internal rooms needing fires, and air to feed them; nor a Master who’d said quite plainly—according to Mr Bilbo, so ‘tweren’t as though Sam were speaking Mr Bungo amiss—that he weren’t about to suffer scorched knees and a frozen arse in his own home, no matter what he’d to put up with elsewhere. 

It hadn’t been the night for a grand elven saga, the accustomed fare when Frodo read as Sam worked. He’d’ve found it difficult, for once, to be transported into legend; where usually his heart soared at the great deeds and brave words, they’d’ve been somehow too fine tonight, too _large_. The innate hobbit love of the known and the rooted, the homely and, yes, the humble, was strong in him. In comparison with the doings of the Fair Folk, a letter and verses filled with the small matters of hobbit interest might not seem the most exciting choice, but on a winter’s eve like this, filled with iron frost and bitter wind (snow to come on it too, if Sam didn’t miss his guess) modest hobbit doings and plain hobbit comfort were best.

Frodo sighed now, folding together the letter and its accompanying poems, with their small but lively illustrative sketches. He tucked all carefully into one corner of the lap desk, Sam’s Yule-gift to him. He stroked a finger along the satin finish of the oak then traced around the inlay of fine grain, green-dyed leather. A gilded border was tooled with a simple pattern of leaves, its corners designed to accept a square of blotting paper. Sam had chiselled a careful groove for pencil or crayon, and drilled a wide hole to take the inkwell and another, narrow one in which to rest a quill. The convenience of the whole was crowned by the simple, sand-filled pillow that formed its back, moulding itself to Frodo's thighs no matter the angle at which he sat. It was not a new idea but when made with love and care it was a precious one. He had not actually required its services tonight—a letter, even one with several sheets of poetry appended, could as easily have rested in his hands as on its surface; but he had it here because he loved it—because it _was_ his gift from Sam.

He sighed again, this time with only thankfulness in mind, for all the blessings he could enjoy, though Bilbo might be no longer here. Setting the desk aside, he slid down into the confines of the overstuffed chair, well provided with cushions. It had been Bilbo’s favourite and was now his. He wiggled his toes in the warmth from the fire, trying to suppress a vast yawn, and failing noticeably.

‘Tired, love?’ Sam looked up from his work. 

‘Yes, though I’m not sure why. A stroll to Bywater and back is not exactly the most wearing of ways to spend a day. And we didn’t need so many things that the carrying was much of a weight, but I feel as though I had walked the length of the Shire with a pack full of rocks on my back!’

‘It’s the cold,’ Sam said thoughtfully. ‘When the wind’s too idle to go round, and blows right through instead, a body has to put so much into just keeping warm that everything else must be worked at all the more. It’s not just lack of sunshine as makes a hobbit look cold and grey in winter, it’s the extra effort it takes to do even the simplest of things.’

Frodo watched from beneath almost-closed lashes; there was nothing cold or grey about the hobbit before him. Sam was sitting at his feet, cross-legged on the hearthrug to catch the best of light from fire and lamp. The wood in his hand was already assuming a sinuous shape, its grain beginning to show to best advantage, coaxed out shaving by gentle shaving, under Sam’s careful knife. Sam would say, if asked, that the shadow lived within the wood, and all he did was to remove what held it there and allow it to escape. Almost formless they seemed at times, Sam’s carvings, on a glance; merely wood that had been polished for no better reason than a rich smooth patina that begged to be stroked. But when you looked away, and quickly back again, there, from the corner of your eye, you caught it—the graceful elf, the curve of the otter, the cupped hand of a mother tender upon her child—the soul set free by Sam’s nurturing hands. His work was much sought and loved, by those with heart to see.

To Frodo, this was an aspect of his Sam as mysterious as his ability to coax things to grow more beautifully, more bounteously, more fruitfully, than seemed possible for anyone else. He felt dimly that it was connected to Sam’s way of relating to the natural world, as though Sam’s touch reached into the wood—the seed, the earth itself—to release the core of its being. He had an uncanny gift with animals too, and most folk (setting aside the few like Sandyman) responded easily and fully to Sam’s company. And Frodo’s pride in him was greater than Sam would have wanted to know.

He fidgeted a little as Sam turned his work within strong fingers, knowing himself that firm yet subtle touch. And sometimes Sam would stretch his legs before him, the current carving held securely in his toes. Frodo loved to watch him revolve a piece between his feet; it seemed the distance was sufficient for Sam to really see whatever he was looking for. The still-rough wood turned slowly and steadily until Sam had imprinted upon his mind the shape for which he was searching, or maybe it was simply what he might need to do next. Frodo wasn’t sure, and had never managed to work it out, for whenever he looked long enough to consider such a question, he fell headlong into thoughts of those toes, and what Sam could do with them. When he sat thus, foothair parted easily – sleek from the regular brushing Frodo insisted was its due – slipping away to reveal his toes in all their delectable fascination.

The big ones moved with surety as they controlled the broader movements. He wondered with an internal shiver, if Sam knew he had _masterful_ toes, strong toes that marshalled the others in their holding and rotating. Each smaller one flexed and bent to the shape of the wood, the grasp as measured and as careful as from most folks’ fingers; respect and love in every fluidly precise action. 

Frodo knew them well, each necessary callous rasping rough across his skin yet capable of the most delicate adjustment, the most alluring caress, a silken ripple trailing seductively in their wake; he had no idea why it should be so very erotic to be fondled by Sam’s toes—it simply _was_ , and his body gave back full thanks beneath their touch.

Sam’s hands alone were busy here as he plied his knife upon a piece Frodo suspected might yet be destined for a later Yuletide gift. He watched them, and his Sam, bathed in firelight before the hearth. Though Sam might claim that fire or lamp drew bronze or copper lights from _his_ hair, Frodo knew them for base metal compared with the gold that glinted from Sam’s own, wherever on his person it might lie. He hugged to himself his thoughts of other, better ways perhaps, that Sam might use his hands (and Frodo his) to ensure them both a really good night’s sleep; for he could wait—just not too long.

‘Well,’ he said, with a lazy smile, eyes still veiled as he regarded Sam, ‘ _you_ certainly didn’t look cold and grey when I left you sawing up those branches, while I went to market. Even with your jacket off, you were definitely not pinched or wan—more than warm enough, I’d have said, despite the wind—and flushed too!’

Sam’s toes curled now, as a shiver skittered lightly up his spine, owing naught at all to cold but to a huskier note within Frodo’s words. Still, he managed to keep his voice fairly steady, as he quoted the Shire aphorism: ‘Wood warms you twice—once in the cutting and again in the burning.’ He clicked in his knife as he spoke and flicked fine-shaved ribbons from the cloth in his lap into the fire. His work wrapped safely in its swaddling of rag, he set it carefully aside before kneeling to face Frodo. ‘And from the way somebody kissed me goodbye, it’s small wonder if I was flushed!’

‘Somebody _kissed you_?’ Frodo opened his eyes wide, radiating shock. ‘It’s just a good thing I didn’t see that, Samwise Gamgee, or I should have had words to say!’

‘You might well have seen it,’ Sam grinned, pulling him into a sitting position, ‘if you didn’t have this habit,’ he cupped Frodo’s face gently and leaned inwards, ‘of closing your eyes when you kiss…’ A long pause was filled only with the call of the rising wind, well beyond their cosy haven, until he murmured, ‘Like that.’

Unable to deny the accusation, and rather breathless besides, Frodo changed tack. ‘ _My_ kiss wasn’t in the least like that,’ he said, managing against the odds to look affronted.

‘It wasn’t?’ Sam’s eyebrows rose, disbelievingly.

‘Not at all. I remember it perfectly. It was far more like this.’ He pecked Sam swiftly on his cheek, just as he had dutifully kissed relatives all his life; and then moved back a little to observe the effect. 

It was Sam’s turn to simulate. ‘Well now, Mr Frodo,’ he said, shaking his head with a fair assumption of concern, ‘I think we’re going to have to get a lock for that front gate. Don’t know who it was, but _somebody_ came along and kissed me senseless while I was trying to cut the logs. And if it wasn’t you, it must have been an _intruder_.’ His expression of mock horror was perfect.

‘That’s terrible, Sam!’ Frodo positively oozed sympathy, stroking Sam’s hair, and suppressing a chuckle. ‘You must have been so upset! Whatever did you do?’

‘Wasn’t much I _could_ do!’ Sam complained. ‘Whoever it was just laughed in my ear and whisked off before I could get a hold.’ His hands stroked down Frodo’s back, and stayed tightly at his waist, clearly indicating the manner in which he would have restrained his molester, had he been able.

Frodo rested his forehead on Sam’s, as he asked, ‘And what would you have done, had you caught him before he tore himself away in so unmannerly a fashion?’

‘Seems to me,’ Sam rubbed his nose against Frodo’s, for emphasis, ‘I’d have had to teach him a lesson. Whoever he is, he needs to learn that you can’t just kiss a hobbit so thoroughly he starts thinking _thoughts_ , and expect to get clean away with it.’

‘A lesson of some kind certainly seems called for,’ Frodo agreed, prolonging the nose rub, and adding a kissy flourish to either side, ‘but it would have been far too cold outside. I think perhaps you should have brought him in for some concentrated learning.’

‘That would certainly have been more hospitable. You wouldn’t have minded if I’d brought him indoors, would you?’ Frodo did not reply, being preoccupied now in the dabbing of little kisses to Sam’s face; Sam took it as assent and continued in consideration of his likely actions.

‘I might well have brought him in here, in front of the fire, and set him down upon the rug, like this.’ He tugged gently, until Frodo was kneeling before him. ‘He would have been very warm, though, bundled up like that in scarf and cloak and coat and all,’ Sam said, his fingers anticipating his words, buttons giving way easily beneath them. ‘I’d’ve had to help him off with his things, of course—it would only be polite…’ Frodo’s waistcoat slid from his shoulders under gentle urging, his shirt floated free, and Sam touched skin at last. 

‘What, all of them?’ Frodo asked breathlessly, as Sam lifted him so he could kick his trousers away.

‘All of them,’ Sam said firmly. He leaned back to take in the sight of Frodo, pale skin flickered over with orange and yellow flame, and drew a sharp breath, not caring longer for their little game. 

But Frodo knelt up, pulling him near to undo buttons in his turn. ‘It is unkind,’ he chided, ‘to dress so fine a guest feels ill at ease. I think your importunate visitor would deserve to be treated at the least, with the courtesy of equality in this!’ The husky note was far more pronounced now, as was its inevitable effect upon Sam. ‘He might even have forced himself upon you again, might have repeated that terribly upsetting kiss!’

‘That peck on the cheek, you m—’ Sam could get no further, for his tormentor had indeed replayed the very kiss that had heated him far more deeply than wood-cutting ever could have done. 

His fervour had smouldered silently, through Frodo’s return and the rest of the day’s tasks, through their meal and the quiet evening by the hearth; but like a heating haystack, outward calm hid a dormant fire which must eventually burst forth, the stronger for delay. Their playful banter had fanned banked embers well enough, and his Frodo, close against him, naked and flushed from firelight and arousal, was spark enough to set anyone alight.

‘Yes, that one,’ was whispered against Sam’s mouth as his shirt vanished without his even noticing the fact. 

‘I wonder, _are_ you terribly upset?’ Frodo brushed a hand lightly over Sam’s bare chest, then down onto heavy tweed. He dallied there, fingers tracing what stirred eagerly beneath the fabric. ‘Oh, yes, there certainly seems to be something of a _disturbance_ , here…’

Sam’s attempt at a laugh choked back into his throat as Frodo dealt decisively with more buttons. 

‘Up, my Sam!’ Sam rose awkwardly from his knees, his trousers were tugged rapidly away, and then-

‘Mmmmm!’ Frodo's approval hummed exquisitely through soft skin onto hard need, and Sam staggered a little on his feet. Frodo put hands to his hips to steady him, feeling muscles grow taut and quiver with restraint, but he did not cease the tantalising murmur, up and down, nuzzling with nose and cheek, his hair too torturing Sam with a silken fall.

Just as Sam suspected he could bear it no longer, the closed lips opened, licking over ridges and into folds, rasping here, gentling there; upward he drifted, adding little, sucking nibbles and quick, flirty kisses, until at last he looked up at Sam, smiled wickedly, and plunged down to take him whole.

Desperately, Sam stuttered, ‘F-Frodo, wait—I w-want—’ 

Frodo eyed him saucily through veiled lids and freed his mouth abruptly. But before Sam could move to show what it was he had wanted, Frodo opened it once more, and his tongue tip stole out to caress his bottom lip. Sam watched, mesmerised, as he set two fingers there, lapping and curling to and fro, over and about them, sometimes taking them in to the knuckle, at others twirling that rosily impudent tongue between and around. 

He cocked his head challengingly to one side, his grin almost enough to finish Sam right then, and Sam must have lost a few seconds somewhere, for the next he knew he was engulfed once more by delicious heat. Wet fingers slid downward, inward—one, then the other—probing gently, a tease that flickered pleasure in time to the deep and rhythmic suckling until Sam could take no more. Frodo paid no heed to his stifled sound of warning but took what was offered, every drop, supporting Sam as he shuddered and swayed on his feet.

‘Frodo!’ he said weakly, when he could, dropping to his knees and clutching Frodo tightly to him. ‘You’ll be the death of me!’

‘No,’ Frodo said, ‘but you may be the death of me if _you_ don’t do something soon!’

‘Oh, I will,’ Sam said, still panting, ‘but not so fast. I want to take my time!’ 

Frodo laughed and groaned at once, as Sam pushed him gently down to lie on the rug once more. He tensed, breath indrawn and eyes closed, waiting…

Sam gazed at him, lying there with the flush of want simmering hot at the surface of his skin. This Frodo no-one else saw, ever. This Frodo relinquished himself into Sam’s care, shedding the twin weights of responsibility and control. He offered them in perfect trust to Sam, for Sam to take up or share or cast aside, unneeded in their loving. And Sam knew the gift he was given, understood the freedom Frodo accepted in return.

He smiled and bent to bestow a tender kiss upon his forehead. When Frodo wriggled his impatience, with a muffled complaint, Sam just said, ‘Shhh!’ and leaned forward, forestalling him in a real kiss, Frodo’s mouth caught soft beneath his own. Too soon though, he must pull away, knowing how easily Frodo could—and often did—use lips and tongue to dissolve his every intention to nothing and sweep him away in a ferment of loving. 

Thwarted now, Frodo gave an ostentatious pout, knowing how very susceptible Sam could be to such a look, even when he knew it to be employed against him. 

_Not this time, love!_ Sam grinned, propping himself over Frodo as he set to in earnest. With mouth and hands he meandered smoothly and thoroughly over Frodo's body—seeking out, finding unerringly, those places where Frodo would feel him the most; delicate skin, usually hidden from view and always from casual touch—at wrist or ankle, inner arm or behind the knee, or well-concealed between his thighs. Sam knew them all as he knew each note of Frodo's voice, when he writhed thus under the tiny shocks of pleasure that trailed in wake of a slippery tongue, of lips that sucked fire into fine, pale skin, of teeth that nipped both sharp and lovingly, so he must moan and beg for _more_ and _faster_ and _harder_ and— 

_‘Please!’_

Sam smiled and laid his head on Frodo's belly at last, level with what twitched there, fretting to be touched, to be tasted, to be taken. His tongue curled swiftly out, a teasing foray to capture the pale drops that gathered and wept from the tip.

 _‘Sam!’_ Frodo shuddered and his hands flailed, reaching helplessly for Sam’s head to pull him closer, needing him to work the magic of his mouth.

‘Oh, no!’ Sam said, breathless now and hard again as he pushed up to lean across the hearth. ‘Not that, me dear. I’ve other things in mind this night.’ He wouldn’t have minded betting that Bungo Baggins had never meant his builder’s handy little cubbyholes, tucked to either side of the generous fireplace, to be put to _quite_ so practical a use. Their contents were always so usefully to hand—neatly out of sight, if never truly out of mind; an added advantage being that, with the parlour fire rarely out all winter, whatever lay in there was already warmed through nicely, whenever the need arose.

He opened the jar carefully, and then Frodo was crying out at smooth slickness upon his aching flesh and the continuing touch of Sam’s hand as he moved to straddle Frodo. He reared up, looking all the while into eyes turned smoky now, from desire pushed almost to the point of pain—then brought himself down, guiding Frodo home in one slow, overwhelming movement.

_‘Ahh!’_

Sam looked hazily down as Frodo's head thrashed from side to side, white teeth digging deep into the full bottom lip. His concentration ragged already, he began a slight lift and fall, circling his hips deliberately as the muscles inside clenched and eased and clenched again. Slow he had promised and slow he meant to give, no matter that the teasing nudge of Frodo within him now demanded faster, harder, _more..._

‘Sam – _please!’_ Frodo was beyond helping himself—he knew naught now but a vast and desperate ache shot through with the vision of his Sam above him. It was far worse and so much better with each slightest move Sam made—drawing it, drawing _him_ , out to this twisting agony of delight.

But when Sam leaned for a ragged, panting kiss he was betrayed by the simple touch of Frodo's belly to his own burning need. His gasp was sudden, loud and keen, cutting through haze and ache alike and forcing both to move, and move fast now—Sam rising and plunging urgently as Frodo found strength to thrust and thrust up hard as he cried triumph at last into Sam’s mouth; and Sam, as ever, followed him.

Harsh breaths eased until the quiet sounds of fire and lamp could be heard once more. The pine was burned to embers now, only the great oak log still glowing to render Frodo's body flame, and flicker gold from Sam’s bright hair as he leaned to lick away all traces of himself. And Frodo's belly tried to turn itself inside out as Sam’s tongue chased over many a place with no excuse for such attention other than Sam’s desire to taste his love once more. 

‘You really were—you still _are_ —trying to kill me!’ Frodo accused, though a smile of serene satisfaction gave the lie to any criticism. He lay in a casual sprawl of limbs that might well have inflamed Sam had he not loved so thoroughly already. 

‘Nay, I thought you wanted me to!’ Sam said, settling on his back and pulling Frodo to lie half over him, in his arms. ‘But it were a good job that shutters and curtains both were drawn, for I’ll wager that otherwise it’d only be them down Bagshot Row with least of hearing as could have missed yon shout!’

‘How can I possibly be quiet when you do such wonderful things for me?’ Frodo countered, hiding his blush in Sam's shoulder. ‘You don’t really think—?’

‘No, love. I was only teasing. And if it’s good for you, then whatever anyone else may hear or not is beside the point.’ Sam dropped a kiss onto his hair, for reassurance.

Frodo looked up. ‘Only if it’s good for you, too,’ he said seriously.

‘ _Mr_ Frodo! You _were_ here just a few minutes ago, weren’t you? You did notice some slight appreciation of your efforts on my part, _didn’t_ you?’

‘Mmmm. I did get that impression. More from what you did than what you said, though…’

'Aye, well, I’ve always been more a hobbit of action than of words.’ Sam acknowledged the wiggle of eyebrows with a grin. ‘Them’s your part—’cepting only the most important ones, of course.’

‘Yes,’ Frodo said quietly. ’I love you too, my Sam.’ 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  
December 2005


End file.
